


Undersea-Rainbows

by agirlsname



Series: The Secret Blog of Dr. John H. Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dates, Epistolary, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Pillow Fights, Season/Series 02, Sexting, Sherlock and Dogs, Slow Build, Texting, The Abominable Bride: The Greenhouse Scene, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valentine's Day, poetic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 11,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: If John ever saw a picture of how Sherlock gazes at him when he isn't looking, things would turn around very quickly for them.





	1. 29th January: Blog Draft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destiny_Cross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiny_Cross/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】海底之虹/Undersea-Rainbows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840935) by [BakerSt233B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerSt233B/pseuds/BakerSt233B)



> Happy January 29th, dear Johnlockers! Let's celebrate the date with an unpublished blog draft by John on the anniversary of the day he met Sherlock. The whole fic takes place in the middle of A Scandal in Belgravia; after all that happened with Irene Adler, but before Mycroft tells John she's dead at the very end.
> 
> The quote in the summary is the tumblr post by jvhnlck that inspired this story. This will become a series, and the title of the first part is borrowed from OTP221B, and their amazing fic Murder in the Family. The _undersea-rainbows_ really stuck with me, and the author was kind to let me use it for this story (with the words that they didn't even know if they were the one to come up with it in the first place - I love fanfic culture)!
> 
> For Destiny_Cross, whose first words to me ever were _Do it. I will read the shit out of this_ , the moment I got the idea for this fic - and then became my friend.
> 
> Special thanks to [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts), [englandwouldfalljohn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn) and [finamour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/finamour/pseuds/finamour) for feedback, ideas and encouragement. The biggest thanks of all, as ever, to Akhenaten's Mummy. My superb beta, my hilarious friend, my rock.
> 
> Any remaining errors are either my fault or my intention. And you'll never know the difference.

I don't know why I'm doing this. Writing stuff I don't intend anyone to read has never been my thing. I just need to talk about it, and there's no one to talk to. If I asked one of our friends, they'd just wink at me, laugh and tell me to go for it. They don't understand, though. We're not like that. _Sherlock's_ not like that. At least I thought he wasn't. Yeah, I don't know what to do, and I don't feel like going back to Ella and boring her with my love life. Her last advice to me was to write, so here I am. I suppose writing secret blog drafts is better than actually talking to myself.

Mrs Hudson is messing with my head. Always has been, with her knowing glances and her afternoons with Mrs Turner, talking about “their boys”. But what happened today… I don't know any more. I honestly think I'm going crazy.

This afternoon, she invited me for tea. Well, both of us, but Sherlock was in a fit because I'd made him clean the kitchen by himself after an experiment went wrong, so he wouldn't come with me. Anyway, she pointed out today's date. I pretended to count in my head, but of course I already knew. It's been a year. One year ago today, I offered Sherlock Holmes my mobile phone in a lab at Bart's, and he took it along with my heart.

I had this vague plan of celebrating the date with a bottle of wine, but Sherlock is still in a sulk on the sofa. I don't feel like telling a petulant silk-clad back that I know the exact date of our first meeting. Instead, I'm spending our kind-of anniversary in my bedroom, going through the photos on my phone over and over like some obsessed teenager.

Anyway, Mrs Hudson talked about how delighted she is for Sherlock and me. “I was so worried about him before. I told him he needed a friend, but he didn't realise it. Nobody looked at him long enough to see his pure heart. I'm so happy you boys have found each other.” Her eyes were getting a bit wet, and she was looking at the framed picture on her mantelpiece. Now, I don't know exactly what she assumes about Sherlock and me, but she _is_ right about everything she said, and that picture… well.

To be honest – which I might as well be in a secret draft – I love that picture. Every time I go into her living room, when Mrs Hudson is in the kitchen making tea, I go straight to the fireplace to look at it. It was taken on my birthday. I went out with a few people to celebrate, and was secretly disappointed when Sherlock claimed to have a “thing”. An alarming text message interrupted us, though. Now I can't remember if this was the time Sherlock set the microwave on fire, or if it was the sulphur catastrophe, but anyhow I hurried home. Sherlock was unharmed – he even had the audacity to look bored – but the air in the flat was toxic, so Mrs Hudson invited us both to her flat.

So we celebrated my birthday, just the three of us together, and, you know, I can't think of a better way to spend it. Mrs Hudson had a fire going and fed us home-made biscuits and tea, and some whiskey. I sat beside Sherlock on the sofa, and his face was glowing in the firelight. Sometimes you wouldn't know him for the haughty, black figure sweeping across crime scenes, and this was one of those evenings. He told us about his first case with Greg, and God I wish I'd been around then to blog about it. Mrs Hudson and I laughed until we cried. I don't think Sherlock himself realises that his humour is just as razor-sharp as his intelligence.

In the middle of all that, Mrs Hudson fetched her camera. Something about the whole situation made me throw my arm around Sherlock's shoulders without over-thinking it, and when the flash went off he was pressed against my side.

We look like primary school best mates. Sherlock is thrown off-balance after I pulled him close like that, his head tucked in by my neck. And I'm smiling so bloody hard, it's looks absurd. I always stare at my own face in the frame, thinking how that may have been one of the happiest moments of my entire life and I didn't even notice.

It makes me feel oddly sad sometimes, and today it did. I felt like I miss Sherlock, which is ridiculous because he's right here. But it's been a while since we had that uncomplicated happiness. Since Christmas, the air in 221B is a little bit thicker than before, and I can't help but wonder how much Sherlock still thinks about Irene Adler.

Mrs Hudson is of course oblivious to all this. “Look at him, he's so happy.”

I looked at Sherlock's face in the frame and agreed that it's nice when he smiles like that. But she only said:

“Oh, the smile, yes. But look at his eyes.”

And just like that, she tilted my whole fucking world as I know it.

Sherlock's smile is big, soft and a bit surprised. Uncalculated, which is so rare. But his eyes, you can see it even though they're turned away from the camera, they _shine_. I never noticed that before. And I've never seen them shine like that. I mean, not even when there's a serial killer with a fondness for locked room murders.

I don't know how I could have missed it. I guess this is the difference between seeing and observing, that Sherlock goes on and on about. In Sherlock's face, I observed something I didn't expect to see. And I can't make sense of it. Because what I saw in that picture is _not_ the rude, brilliant robot I follow around like a smitten idiot.

I can't get it out of my head, and I just keep thinking. What is it that I have failed to observe? Like I said, I've been going through my phone, and Christ, I hadn't realised I only take pictures of Sherlock or Sherlock-related stuff. But there aren't any pictures of us together, so the only thing I've learned is that, yes, Sherlock is still _unbearably_ _beautiful_. Not very helpful, to be honest, I don't know why I take those pictures and keep proving this point to myself.

I know I have some other pictures somewhere on my laptop, though. Somehow I can barely bring myself to

SHIT, is he coming up the stairs? I can't be deduced right now


	2. 30th January: Blog Draft

I may or may not have stolen Mrs Hudson's photo album. You could say it's for science, but it's only Sherlock who ever gets away with that, isn't it. She has more photos from that birthday evening in it, and I've gone through them all, focusing on Sherlock's eyes. Systematically collecting data. See, it really is about science.

I can't hope to do it as well as Sherlock, though. Wonder how he would go about a thing like this. How would he have detached himself from the sentiment that's inevitably clouding the judgement? I've been staring at his eyes in the photos all morning and they're startling, to say the least. I don't understand how they work, how they can take in such precise details. When they pin an object under their scrutiny they look like spotlights, they're so pale. They take everything apart until nothing remains in the dark.

They also shift constantly. At crime scenes they are grey, outside in daylight they are light blue, in the morgue some kind of yellow, in 221B almost green, and in dark alleys at night they're a shimmering colour I don't even have a word for. Like undersea-rainbows.

Wow. It's a good thing I haven't tried to describe his eyes on my public blog, because that would give me away instantly, wouldn't it. Also, it's the type of poetry Sherlock would mock. I pray to God that he doesn't log into my blog and find this – so far, he has no reason to suspect I'm hiding anything here, so I think I'm in the clear. (And if I'm not: SHERLOCK, STOP READING NOW OR, I SWEAR TO GOD, I'LL NEVER MAKE YOU A CUP OF TEA EVER AGAIN. You know I'm serious, I don't joke about tea.)

I may sound like a hopeless romantic but I don't even care. Everything about Sherlock that has captivated me is concentrated in his eyes. Sharpness, life, devastating beauty.

And when I am not looking, they are fixed on me.

Now, I have seen Mrs Hudson's photo album before. None of the pictures are new to me. I guess I've been so occupied with analysing my own appearance, trying to make sure there's nothing there for Sherlock to deduce, that I haven't looked at Sherlock's face properly. It's the same in picture after picture. His undersea-rainbow eyes shine, even when he doesn't smile. It's like when I'm around, his mask isn't enough to shield them.

No one has ever looked at me like that. Shit, that's scary.

And it only gets scarier with the photos I found on my laptop. Greg has sent me a few throughout the year, from crime scenes and whatnot, plus a few from the Christmas party. Some of the case pictures are embarrassing, because when Sherlock is investigating and rambling deductions, I look at him in a way that's more obvious than I thought it'd be. In those pictures, Sherlock is intimidating in his coat, his cheekbones are so sharp it should be illegal, and his eyes are relentless. (I don't know how anyone can not stare. Still, I'd hoped you wouldn't see me practically drooling.)

But in the pictures where it's me crouched next to a body, or speaking to an officer or whatever, Sherlock's eyes are fixed on me. His expressions vary; they can be soft, faintly amused, proud, sometimes nearly… shy? Or sparkling. For lack of a better word.

He looks like what I do is important to him.

He looks like he hopes I will look back.

He looks like he can't help himself.

In one picture, we both look at each other, and. Seriously. That one is so intense I can't look at it for more than a second, because it's the kind of look not meant to be seen from the outside. Are we standing around half of Scotland Yard like that?! No wonder people talk! But the thing is, it's not just me in that picture. Sherlock's gaze is bloody _electric_.

And then there's the Christmas pictures. They're horrible. Sherlock doesn't smile even once. At the time, I assumed he was affected by Irene Adler's fake death, but now, when I look at the pictures… well, that's not what I observe.

Why does Sherlock gaze at the back of my head with that dark, lost expression? Why does his face twist in contempt whenever Jeanette comes close to him, or close to _me_? I'm racking my brains for an explanation here, but there's one really simple answer, isn't there? Because that looks like jealousy.

I mean, I suppose it could all be in a… friend way. He never had a friend before, of course I mean a lot to him. But – honestly. You can smile at a friend, you can be proud of a friend, or laugh with them or whatever. But you don't bloody _look at them like that!_

I'm trying to explain it away, tell myself this is just hope speaking, but it's not. It's evidence! And yes, it certainly isn't what he told me a year ago during our first dinner together, but hey, he could have just panicked. If he's never had a relationship before

 

This is ridiculous. We are utterly _ridiculous_. We're _everything_ to each other. We're _supposed_ to be together and one year is far more than enough waiting time.

He told me he's married to his work. This is not true. He is, in fact, married to _me_.

 

Oh God. How do I make the stubborn git realise it?


	3. 31st January: Blog Draft

I want to have him.

I am so in love with him.

How do I


	4. 1st - 2nd February: Texts

John    23:56  
God, this is the longest night of my life.

Sherlock    23:56  
Have patience, John. SH

John    23:57  
It's only midnight. I'm freezing

John    23:58  
You haven't seen anything yet?

Sherlock    23:58  
No, as should be obvious, since I have not yet  
summoned you. SH

John    00:00  
It would be nicer to sit together.

Sherlock    00:00  
Though highly impractical for our purposes  
at the moment. SH

John    00:01  
You know, it's been a while since we were out  
like this

Sherlock    00:01  
I should hope so. It's murder on the knees.  
SH

John    00:02  
I kind of miss just talking to you. Two friends,  
you know

John    00:02  
Two men

John    00:05  
I don't think we've had a proper stakeout  
since before the Adler case

John    00:07  
Have you heard from her since then, by the  
way?

Sherlock    00:07  
Stop fiddling with your phone and pay  
attention to the entrance. SH

John    00:07  
I can do both.

Sherlock    00:08  
You can barely type with two fingers on a  
keyboard. SH

John    00:08  
You'd be surprised what I can do with two  
fingers

John    00:11  
So, did she ever text you again? After all that?

Sherlock    00:12  
Once, some days ago. SH

John    00:14  
What did she say?

Sherlock    00:14  
“Goodbye, Mr Holmes.” SH

John    00:15  
Right. You won't see her again, then?

Sherlock    00:15  
Why would I want to see her again? SH

John    00:16  
Just admit it, Sherlock, she made an  
impression on you!

Sherlock    00:16  
Formidable opponent; a remarkable  
adventure. SH

John    00:16  
And a beautiful woman.

Sherlock    00:17  
The fair sex is your department; I'll take your  
word for it. SH

John    00:21  
Alright, Sherlock, can I ask you something?

John    00:21  
I'm your closest friend, whatever that means  
when it comes to you

Sherlock    00:22  
Correct. SH

John    00:22  
Right, but I still don't know anything about  
your past

Sherlock    00:22  
What? SH

John    00:23  
Well, have you had

John    00:23  
You know

Sherlock    00:23  
No? SH

John    00:25  
Experiences

Sherlock    00:26  
Why are you talking like this? SH

John    00:26  
Why do you need to be alone?

Sherlock    00:27  
If you are referring to romantic entanglement,  
John – which I rather fear you are – as I have  
often explained before, all emotion is  
abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive  
instrument, the crack in the lens. SH

John    00:29  
Wait, I wrote that. You're quoting yourself  
from my blog!

Sherlock    00:29  
Exactly. SH

John    00:29  
No, those are my words, not yours!

John    00:30  
That's the version of you I show the readers,  
and everyone buys it

John    00:30  
But I don't, Sherlock

Sherlock    00:30  
For God's sake, I have never been so  
impatient to be attacked by a murderous  
chimney-sweep. SH

John    00:31  
I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you  
uncomfortable

Sherlock    00:31  
I'm not. SH

John    00:31  
I'm just saying

John    00:31  
I don't understand why you won't let yourself  
feel it

John    00:31  
Clearly Irene Adler meant a lot to you

Sherlock    00:32  
Please, John, you have this backwards. SH

John    00:34  
Okay. Yeah. So, does that mean you're not  
attracted to women?

Sherlock    00:35  
What does it matter? SH

John    00:35  
It doesn't. It's just that I'm your friend, and I  
want to know you

John    00:35  
I'm just trying to have a normal conversation

Sherlock    00:35  
Please don't. SH

John    00:36  
Fine, I'll go first then. I'm bisexual, in case you  
didn't know

John    00:41  
Well well, I'll take that as a no! ;)

Sherlock    00:42  
How was I supposed to know that? You  
always say you're not gay. SH

John    00:42  
Well I'm not

John    00:42  
I'm bi

John    00:42  
Pay attention, Detective ;)

Sherlock    00:43  
There's always something! SH

John    00:43  
Come on, then

John    00:43  
Don't leave me alone outside the closet!

John    00:44  
You're not straight. Are you ace? Gay?

Sherlock    00:45  
Gay. SH

Sherlock    00:45  
Although it still doesn't matter. SH

John    00:47  
If you say so.

Sherlock    00:57  
There have only been girlfriends. SH

John    00:57  
Can't leave a question unanswered, can you?  
;)

Sherlock    00:57  
Nor you, apparently. SH

John    00:59  
Truth be told, I think I'm done with girlfriends.  
They don't fit into my Baker Street life very  
well

Sherlock    01:00  
Oh please, the gender hardly makes any  
difference in that matter. SH

John    01:00  
Nah. I mean I'll quit the dating for a while

Sherlock    01:00  
Why? SH

John    01:01  
Maybe I want it to be just you and me ;)

John    01:17  
You still there?

Sherlock    01:18  
Do pay attention to the case, John. SH

John    01:18  
Whatever you say, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My very favourite line of this chapter is brought to you by Akhenaten's Mummy. I won't reveal what it is, you'll just have to take my word for it: She deserves adoration!


	5. 2nd February: Blog Draft

Okay, can I just

He's gay. I can't sleep because

Well, fuck you Irene Adler.

The air between us is crowded with possibilities. He hadn't counted on that, I bet. We went home after the case tonight, me knowing he's gay, he knowing I'm bi. He looked flustered. Wouldn't meet my eyes, which only increased the tension. Oh God, the tension.

Where a few hours before there was a casual friendship, there is now air too thick to properly draw into our lungs. It'd scare me, but I guess that kind of friendship wasn't going to work out in the end anyway. How casual was it, really?

He's still saying he'll never want romance with anyone. So it doesn't matter what gender that hypothetical person would have, he says. I'd back off and leave him alone if I thought he was sure – in fact, I've tried that already.

But I have seen the pictures, and. Now I see it, all the time. I catch him staring. Undersea-rainbows are playing over my face and my body. Smooth and warm, it's like I can feel them on my skin. And I can't live like this, pretending I don't know it. No, I won't hold back just because he's scared.

I think that's it. I think maybe he's a virgin. Or has been treated very badly in some previous relationship. God I hope that's not it. But anyway, I think he's scared because he doesn't know what it would mean. To be romantic, with someone who treasures him.

I want to show him. God, I want to show him.

What if I can? I'm not sure how he'd react, but. I'm happy to tell you this is what I've been practising for since adolescence. Enter Three Continents Watson.

 

So, I'll just say it again, because this turns out to be surprisingly helpful.

Sherlock is gay.

Okay, now I'll sleep.


	6. 3rd February: Blog Draft

My pulse sky-rockets. My own heartbeats make me quake. I think back to what happened a moment before, and remember how he looked at me. How his eyes shone. It almost fools me, because I'm so used to seeing him like that, though I never made sense of it. My body knows what it means even before my head does.

There's a grand declaration sitting in my throat. It cuts off my voice now and then, but I keep it in. I don't want to scare him, he seems so scared already. He would turn me down like he did at Angelo's, and that would be such a damn shame given that he's… in love with me? I think.

So I started with just smiling. He can't call me out on it. He can't turn me down just because I smile at him.

Not to brag, but this smile took me a long way in my rugby days. It's the ultimate test: If Sherlock Holmes really was above everything concerning his body, he'd be immune to it.

Well… he isn't.

I was in the kitchen, cleaning off the table and sorting through the crap on the windowsill, and he was sitting in his leather chair, reading. When he lowered the book to reflect upon something, I caught his eye, and I smiled.

First he looked confused. When I didn't break eye contact, he started shifting his gaze as if he thought I was smiling at something other than him. _So_ endearing.

And then he also started to smile. It was so small and hesitant, it was this shy thing you could kill with a whiff of air. That's when I turned away, because I knew I had his attention. He looked at me when I went back to what I was doing. I could feel the glistening of undersea-rainbows on my skin, but I pretended not to. Keep him wondering, keep him looking at me _like that_.


	7. 4th February: Blog Draft

It's incredible how he can deceive himself, and it's kind of sad. I've continued to flirt subtly – smiles, looks, brief touches, that sort of thing. He's far more responsive than I thought he'd be, so I need to be careful not to overwhelm him. Today for example. We were at a crime scene, and he was busy sniffing the shoes of the body while I spoke to the forensics to hear what they'd found already. There was one thing that stood out to me, so I went to Sherlock and crouched down beside him. I put a hand on his shoulder, mainly to make him notice me. He looked up and I told him the thing, while I moved my hand to his forearm.

Just to keep my balance, of course.

When I rose, he followed me with his eyes, God those perceptive undersea-rainbow eyes. I walked away and when I turned back after several steps, he was still looking at me, even though he had been very busy deducing before I touched him.

The sharpness of his eyes when he's in his deductive mode, it's… it never goes away. It's like every expression is magnified by ten when he wears it. It makes his eyes so bright it's sometimes painful to watch them. Like now, he had that shy look again. How can someone look _intensely shy_?

I'd almost call it longing, except I bet he doesn't understand what he longs for.

Because then, of course, the case turned out to be a love drama where this guy killed the woman because she didn't return his feelings. I swear Sherlock ranted for five minutes about how ridiculous and tedious and dull it all is, how it would be so much better if everyone could just keep their head cool, how it's no wonder people are so stupid if they fill their minds with concerns about love and I just,

Well, I don't know what to say. I'd give anything to know what's going on inside that great mind right now, and that _body_ he neglects so awfully. The man's a walking contradiction. A hint would be great at this point.

To be honest I was pretty put off by his rant, to the point where I didn't feel like having dinner with him. But I was starving and I can't let _him_ starve; he wouldn't even notice it was happening, a fact I try not to dwell on.

So we stopped by the Chinese place on our way home, and he opened the door for me and put a hand on my lower back when I walked in. Whole thing ended with me paying and smiling at him, watching his hesitant smile back.

Those evenings, I almost forget I'm dealing with a man claiming to be a high-functioning sociopath. He's not, the notion is ridiculous, and he must know it himself. But I bet he wishes it was true and that breaks my heart a little.

 

I want more evenings like that. Think I'm gonna try and cook for him. Properly. Because apparently I can't leave this alone even if it means I'll get my heart broken.

 

Can't you just let me love you?


	8. 5th February: Shopping List

rice noodles

chicken breast

soy sauce

1-2 fresh chillies

bean sprouts

Fish sauce    (Do I need that?  
                     What is that?)

peanuts

1 lime

wine?          – not too expensive

candle        – not if I go with wine

 ~~l ube?~~          I need it regardless

milk

Jaffa Cakes


	9. 6th February: Blog Draft

He froze in the doorway.

It was bloody worse than seeing a rifle pointed at me. I probably looked like a deer in headlights even though I'd been expecting him, _waiting_ for him.

The candlelight flicked in undersea-rainbows.

Then he moved to sit at the table.

I'm glad I didn't do the wine just yet. Maybe he'd have actually run.

It turns out I can make one hell of a pad thai. He pretended not to want it, but he ate it all. He even forgot himself and scraped the plate. When the fork was in his mouth his gaze snapped up, meeting mine. I smiled. He blushed.

The great detective, victim of his bodily needs after all.

“You liked that”, I said.

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose.”

“I won't tell anyone.” I didn't wink, but close enough.

His expression was unreadable. “Do you think I care about that?”

He was so serious suddenly, putting a lot more weight into that than a conversation about food justifies.

“What _do_ you care about?” I asked.

“The work.”

“You can have both.”

“It would slow me down.”

“It would make you shine.”

“Save your poetry for the blog, John.”

 

Could've gone better, all in all. I just had breakfast and he wasn't even up.

… Oh, but that's a text from him. Hang on

 

Shit. I don't know what he

Does he not understand how this sounds?

If he knows I'm trying to win him over (and I'm pretty sure he does) and he really doesn't want me (and he certainly gave that impression yesterday), then he should be careful not to flirt. He wouldn't do it accidentally, he would stay away.

Fuck. I'm going downstairs.


	10. 6th February: Texts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you have them at last, the texts from yesterday!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, following, commenting and longing for the next part. Today is my one-year AO3 user anniversary and I'm so glad you're all here with me!

Sherlock    09:15  
I've made tea. SH

John    09:15  
You. Made tea. Why?

Sherlock    09:15  
Tea has a well-documented positive effect  
on your spirits. SH

John    09:16  
And what makes you think I need it?

Sherlock    09:16  
You are hiding in your bedroom. Hardly a  
difficult deduction. SH

John    09:17  
In that case, you were hiding in your bedroom  
as well.

Sherlock    09:17  
Now I am by the fire. Join me. SH

John    09:17  
You made a fire??

Sherlock    09:18  
I am, in fact, a grown man. SH

John    09:18  
So I try to tell you.

Sherlock    09:19  
Come downstairs, John. I have come to think  
of Sunday mornings as ours, and find I do not  
enjoy spending them without you any more.  
SH

John    09:20  
Fine. If you eat the leftovers with me for  
lunch.

Sherlock    09:20  
It was a delicious pad thai. Stop sulking. SH

John    09:21  
Careful, it almost sounds like a thank you.

Sherlock    09:24  
It was not my intention to be rude to you,  
John. Thank you for a most pleasant  
evening. SH

John    09:26  
Does that mean you'll let me cook for you  
again?

Sherlock    09:30  
I only know I will be unable to say no to you.  
SH


	11. 7th February: Blog Draft

Mixed signals, thy name is Sherlock Holmes. He has _not_ been keeping any distance at all after the dinner I made him. On the contrary, it's as though he's tried to repair what happened and restore our closeness. To be frank, it's like he's _beg_ _ging_ me to flirt with him. So I just wanted to see what would happen if I did it blatantly.

Mycroft came by today to ask for our help. It sounded like a case pretty much made for Sherlock, and he would have loved it if it came from Greg, but it didn't, so instead we had to deal with a four-year-old sulking on the sofa. Mycroft was very insistent though – what else is new – so finally I just told him we'd take the case so he would leave and let me handle it.

Sherlock was lying there in his thin cotton pyjamas and red dressing gown. Now, since this is a private post, let me finally drop a comment about how painfully sexy he is in that outfit. Yeah, he is stunning in his suits and far-too-tight shirts, and I would love to dishevel them in some dark alley on our way home from a chase. But when he's in his soft pyjamas, God, I just want to snuggle into it, smell him, stroke him, press against him and feel him through the thin fabric

… Christ. Moving on.

Sherlock was on the sofa, looking at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. First, I tried to reason with him. He didn't even listen. Just heaved a deep sigh now and then.

So I changed tactic. I paused, tipped my head, and just said: “Huh.”

The reaction was immediate. He can't stand someone figuring out something he doesn't know. He twisted his neck to look at me. “What?”

“Poor Sherlock”, I said, “are you coming down with something?”

His eyes narrowed, probably catching on when he saw my feigned frown and the smile I purposely failed to hide.

“No”, he snapped, the very idea of illness apparently below him.

“Are you sure you aren't ill? Do you feel hot? Your cheeks are a bit flushed.”

They weren't, they were pale bordering on transparent, but they started to pink up a bit at that point. He stared at me. “I'm fine. I don't get 'ill'.” He actually did the quotation marks in the air. Arrogant arse.

“That would be up to your doctor to decide, wouldn't it?” I stepped forward to lean my leg against the armrest, smiled down at him while he blinked up at me. “Because if you're not well, I'll take care of you, you know.”

“Why are you being silly?” he sputtered. “Stop it.”

“If you don't feel well enough to take the case, I'll examine you. You need me to go get the thermometer? Whip out my stethoscope?”

Yeah, yeah, I know, don't judge me though, because it worked. He blushed furiously and darted up from the sofa. He was dressed within two minutes, holding up the door for me while he snapped at me for taking so long with my shoelaces.

The case really is promising – Sherlock is in his mind palace right now – but I could tell he was distracted the whole time. I hadn't realised how much I've longed for that kind of thing. To build up the tension and see him flustered whenever I came close. I stayed in the background, calm and steady, which made it so damn rewarding to see _him_ unable to keep his untouchable exterior.

And I'm probably bragging at this point but oh, I can wait, I can be a fucking rock while I watch him squirm, I don't even need rugby/army uniforms to create that any more. I can throw people to the ground with my eyes and the right sort of smile – and so could Sherlock, if he knew how. If he ever tried to seduce me I would likely die from his voice alone, even more when paired with his eyes. But he has no idea of any of that.

 

To be able to break through the icy wall he's put up. To make him unable to control himself. To make him blush whenever he sees me smile.

God, I hope it's not wrong of me to love it.


	12. 6th - 9th February: Notes on a Piece of Paper

_(On a shelf in the fridge)_

Dear Arse,  
If you're looking for the mouse ears, stop looking.  
John

 

_(Note still in the fridge; added message)_

_Stupid Idiot,_  
_You knew I was saving those for an experiment._  
_I hope you understand what a massive inconvenience this is._  
_SH_

 

_(Note still in the fridge; added message)_

I warned you I'd throw them out unless you used them, Sherlock.  
You said you'd do it two days ago and now they were smelling.

 

_(Note moved to the mirror above the fireplace)_

_Which was the POINT. SH_

 

_(Note moved under the lens of Sherlock's microscope)_

I'll make it up to you tonight

 

_(Under the lid of John's laptop; a new piece of paper is clamped to the old one)_

_How? SH_

 

_(Note moved to the empty spot for Sherlock's shoes)_

Well I planned to treat you to some wine and  
a movie but you were out. Another time?

 

_(Note moved into John's left shoe)_

_Sounds dull. SH_

 

_(Note moved to the pocket of Sherlock's suit jacket)_

Oh, but with me it wouldn't be.

 

_(Note moved; found by the bottle of wine hidden in John's wardrobe)_

_This is unnecessarily expensive for a “movie night”.  
                                                                      SH_

 

_(Note moved to Sherlock's sock drawer)_

Whatever it takes to please the posh boy!

 

_(Note moved to the package of the morning tea)_

_I am not pleased. SH_

 

_(Note moved to Sherlock's bedside table)_

Not yet.


	13. 10th February: Blog Draft

I need to write something. Forget reading a book with this sight in front of me. I just need to keep myself from staring for a bit. Keep my hands busy.

We have a… visitor. Mrs Hudson is using those tickets we gave her for Christmas, and she left for Gran Canaria with her sister today. The sister has a dog, and couldn't find someone to take care of it when she was gone because Mrs Hudson always does that. So I offered. I was pretty scared at the time, because I had no idea how Sherlock would act around a dog, and I didn't exactly consult him on the decision. Anyway, Thompson arrived today, and.

Sherlock thinks Thompson is the most intelligent creature he has met, possibly apart from himself. He has already started speaking of them as a unit. “Thompson and I aren't hungry.” “Thompson and I think that jumper is terrible.” “Thompson and I need to think.”

And they exchange these looks. Thompson turns to Sherlock all the time for some sort of non-verbal communication they both seem to understand. She loves Sherlock right back and that's, yeah.

Makes Sherlock even more adorable somehow.

I went to the shops this evening, and when I came back they were both lying on the living room carpet, asleep. Thompson's paw is resting in Sherlock's hand. I mean, I'm

I put a blanket on Sherlock and I should get a medal for keeping myself from kissing his temple.


	14. 11th February: Texts

Sherlock    14:04  
John Watson, get back here. Now. SH

John    14:04  
I'm intrigued, but I'm at Tesco. Did you need  
anything?

Sherlock    14:05  
Do not pretend to be oblivious to what you  
have done. The fact that you thought I would  
not notice shows you are even more of an  
imbecile than originally estimated. SH

John    14:06  
Not sure what you're ranting about there, but  
how about I buy some Jaffa Cakes as a  
peace offering?

Sherlock    14:06  
Trying to distract me with sugar. Who do you  
take me for? SH

John    14:06  
The person who ate all the Jaffa Cakes  
tonight, I guess. At least I hope that was you  
and not Thompson.

Sherlock    14:07  
Oh, so you do remember her existence, then.  
Remarkable. SH

John    14:07  
What?

Sherlock    14:07  
When I told you to keep an eye on her, I did  
not mean “visit Mrs Hudson and leave the  
flat with my bedroom door open”. SH

Sherlock    14:10  
Silence? How telling. SH

John    14:11  
Okay I'm not even gonna ask how you know  
that, but I wasn't gone for long. She needed  
help switching a light bulb in the ceiling.

Sherlock    14:11  
But it was sufficient time for Thompson to  
sneak into my bedroom and LIE IN MY BED.  
SH

John    14:12  
Fine. I'm sorry. She wasn't that dirty, though,  
and she only lay by the foot of the bed.

Sherlock    14:12  
She lay on my PILLOW. SH

John    14:13  
What the- I checked the bed before you got  
home! How are you bloody doing this??

Sherlock    14:13  
You ruined my bed. I hope you are happy. SH

John    14:14  
Believe me, this is not what it looks like when  
I ruin beds.

John    14:14  
I'll help you change the sheets, if it makes  
you feel better.

Sherlock    14:15  
It does not. You swore to guard my room. SH

John    14:15  
You are strangely protective of your bed,  
Sherlock.

Sherlock    14:15  
It's where I SLEEP. SH

John    14:16  
You also sleep on the rug with your face in  
Thompson's fur.

Sherlock    14:16  
I do not. SH

John    14:16  
Yes you do.

Sherlock    14:16  
I do not. SH

John    14:17  
You do, and I know it because I almost  
stumbled upon six feet of lean detective this  
morning.

Sherlock    14:18  
It was for science. SH

John    14:18  
You need to stop now, people think I'm weird  
for giggling in the checkout line

Sherlock    14:18  
Stop what? SH

John    14:19  
Being adorable

John    14:24  
Heading home. Bought two packs of Jaffa  
Cakes for you and Thompson

John    14:25  
And now you're doing that eyebrow thing  
aren't you

Sherlock    14:25  
What eyebrow thing? SH

John    14:25  
You do a sort of frowny thing when you try  
not to be tempted by something edible

Sherlock    14:26  
You may not know me as well as you think.  
And you are not here to see it so you will  
never know. SH

John    14:26  
Oh but I'll soon see it again, when I get home  
and seduce you into eating Jaffa Cakes.

John    14:27  
I know you, Sherlock.

John    14:27  
I also know you're smiling right now. See you  
soon.


	15. 12th February: Blog Draft

So… that happened.

I really don't know why he's so particular about his bed, but he can be a bit OCD sometimes. He lets Thompson be anywhere and do bloody anything, except lying on his bed. Thompson must have known, because that was her number one destination the moment no-one was looking.

Sherlock was sulky when I got home from Tesco yesterday, and when I went to change his bedsheets he followed to monitor the process. He kept shouting at me that I was doing it wrong. How can you change the sheets _wrong??_   Like I said, OCD.

In the end, I threw a pillow at his head.

I _swear_ I hadn't calculated what would happen. How the heck should I have known we'd end up

I mean,

It's not my fault! I wasn't trying to trick him into it, _he_ not only threw the pillow back, he also threw the duvet over me so I fell onto the bed. And I may have accidentally

Oh hell, I don't even know how it happened, but. We kind of wrestled. And had a pillow fight at the same time. I don't know. But it was

 

Well okay, no one will read this so I'll just say it: it was so fucking hot.

God help me and have mercy on my soul

 

Sherlock is strong. His arms are hard as rock when he pushes me down.

But I am stronger. He put up a good fight, I mean it wasn't easy to pin him down. God that sounded filthy and I DIDN'T EVEN MEAN IT TO, I'm just trying to describe

Him panting in my ear, though, that's pretty filthy. The warm scent from his skin, humid with a hint of sweat from the wrestling. It all went so fast, I honestly didn't have time to reflect on any of it. Not until he was on his back and I was straddling him, pinning his arms above his head on the mattress.

Everything froze, our faces were close enough to feel our breaths from parted lips.

All colour vanished – the sheets white, his shirt grey, his skin translucent, the only colour left was in the undersea-rainbows.

His eyes went wide and we stared at one another.

Then the colour came back and it chose to rise on his cheeks.

He blinked, and blinked, and I

It would have been easier than anything to sink down onto him, his mouth, his chest, his

Captain Three Continents Watson kept calm. It's always been so much easier to stay in control when my partner is losing it. I held his gaze, and I spoke with a crooked smile.

“You don't stand a chance with me, Holmes.”

He even stopped blinking.


	16. 13th February: Blog Draft

The air between us is crackling. We walk through the park with Thompson, mostly silent. Never touching.

My right hand tingles with the magnetism of his left. Sometimes it's all I can manage not to take it.

Our arms are so close. They hardly ever brush, but I _feel_ it there beside me, all the time.

He glances out of the corner of his eye. I smile to myself and pretend not to notice.

On cases, we synchronise better than ever before. We talk all the time without saying one single word – looks, eyebrows, head tilts… The glow of his mind was positively blinding at this last case, he _flew_ and it was dizzying to watch. When he lands, he smiles breathlessly at me with such pure joy.

I know he's noticed the change. I saw it in his tiny frown during the cab ride home.

He knows I'm right. This makes him shine.

At home we fight over Thompson's eating routines. He has of course done research, dismissed the instructions we got and made up his own schedule. He has also made dog food which he gives Thompson when he thinks I can't see. I shout at him that if he can cook for a dog he can at least cook for humans as well. He shouts back not to shout because I'm scaring Thompson.

It feels like we're parents raising a child and I have this weird floating feeling inside of me. Like this is something I maybe want, some day.

A dog, or

Shit let's not go there,

In the evenings I watch telly. Though I mostly watch him, when he's working on something on his laptop. He glances to the side, not quite at me but enough so he'll see me in his peripheral vision, and he pretends not to notice I'm looking.

When I catch him looking at me, his eyes are practically burning.

 

I haven't written his name even once. At what point did he become the He of my life?


	17. 14th February: Blog Draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! If you're a person who's bummed to be spending it alone, you are incorrect; no one is alone, you're all my darlings! Please accept this Johnlock fluff as a symbol of my affections. <3

I've never cared about valentines before. Pretended to when i've tried to impress people, but that was hardly why i cared today. I dunno why. I begin to suspect i've never loved before, and that this is it. I love this man. I love

I think he knows. And i think he knew todays date and i think that's why he fled the flat before I could propose we have that movie night. He probably dduced i would from my nails or something. My clever man.

He did send me a text that he was at barts, though, so i packed a blanket and went there. When i arrived he was in the lab. He looked

good, yeah. he

I want to write it all down but how can i do that, he's like from another world, he's like, hes so

I want him to feel good. I don want to pressure him or anything. I want him to feel precious. He _is_ precious and he should know! I told him that since he said the wine was too expensive for a movie night, maybe he thought it better for a picnic. He just looked at me with his undersea-rainbows – that was a good description, 'm glad i kept it – and i said he didn't have to if he didn't want, i could just leave him the pastries i brought and i'd see him tomorrow.

But then he got up and awkwardly put his hands behind his back and i just want to fold him into a small ball and keep him safe in my pocket. I took him up to the roof and he was surprised, i love it when i get to surprise him, can i do that for the rest of my life? Can we dcide that

We sat on the blanket and drank the expensive wine in paper cups from the hospital. He was all snobby about it. I can't stop smiling. I gave him his heart-shaped pastry, i'm not sure if he believed me when i said it was the only thing they sold today. Don't think he did. But he ate it. And he got a tiny bit of powder sugar on his nose and it was the most adorable thing i've seen! I didn't say anything and he didn't notice so he just sat there with sugar on his face. I don't know if it's weird of me to like that for the humanity of it, like it's somehow a surprise that powder sugar sticks to the face of my genius detective

The sky was clear and london was so beautiful from the roof. When the wine was finished he lay on his back and watched the stars. Remember when he said he found them beautiful? It's the little moments like that. What betrays him. He deosn't care about the solar system, it's not important to him, and yet… he truly appreciates the beauty of a starry sky. Maybe, if i'm really lucky, it can be like that with me as well. I don't need him to understand it, and he can keep running around like a madman, rude and arrogant, speaking of his brain like a hard-drive for data storage. I don't need him to turn his life upside down for the sake of romance. I just need him to run home to 221b in between. To come back to my arms, again and again. To see us like a constellation of stars, and to let me gaze at his night-sky beauty.

I just sat there and stared at his face. I wanted to see what the undersea-rainbows look like when they look at something they find beautiful. Now it occurs to me he must have known I looked at him the whole time, but he didn't stop me or make fun of me.

I think i told him something about how much he means to me, how he's the most unexpected and still wished-for thing that's ever happened to me. He just lay there, watching the stars, and then he scratched his nose and discovered the powder sugar, and he sucked it off the back of his hand.

IS IT LEGAL to have lips like that???

In the end I lay down beside him, only for a short time because I felt his hand beside mine and it was cold. So we went home, and we were silent but it was in that intimate sort of way, like, you're only that kind of silent in the middle of the night after a good date. He fell asleep in the cab with his head on my shoulder. I still feel like my chest is about to explode. He smells like, I dunno, his hair is amazing, he is amazing. I want to take his hand.

God, I have never been this far gone on anyone before, i don't know how i'm supposed to live like this

He woke up when we stopped, with my name on his lips like a question, and I want to tell him _yes, yes_ , but

When i do that, i wanna be sure he's ready.

In the living room he turned to me.

“Thank you for the… thing. That.”

“What?”

“You. Obvious.” He pointed at me, shook his head, and smiled his shyest smile. “Goodnight, John.”

 

Yeah. I'll wake up in about four hours and go over and over this in my head. I'll be a fucking wreck tomorrow and I don't even care.


	18. 15th February: Blog Draft

He didn't meet my eyes all day. He does that sometimes, sort of curls into himself and stops talking or interacting with the world. But this was another kind of silence. He seemed very thoughtful, and I mean he's always stuck in his head but now it was like… he was processing something.

I'm so scared he will decide he really doesn't want this.

In the evening I was watching a movie on the sofa. Sherlock was in his room when I started, and I didn't have the nerve to knock and ask him to join me.

If he doesn't want me, he has the right to refuse.

But after a few minutes he came out, brought Thompson and they both settled beside me, the dog in the middle. Sherlock was still silent while we watched the film, unusual for him. I absent-mindedly petted the dog and didn't realise he was doing it too until our hands brushed in her fur. I didn't look up, and he didn't either, and it kept happening for the rest of the movie.

He didn't answer when I told him goodnight, but at least he didn't have his expression of distaste and arrogance. He was looking at the dog and his face was soft. A bit sad. He looked like a little boy, curled up around his knees with one hand buried in Thompson's fur. It's terrifying to leave him to his thoughts for a whole night, but maybe Thompson will talk some sense into him.


	19. 16th February: Blog Draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry people, I know I'm killing you with the slow burn. Almost there!

It has never been so difficult not to kiss someone.

I could feel it on my lips. It's like I already know the texture of his skin, because my lips are supposed to rest on it.

I wanted to imprint his network of epithelial cells on my lips like a map. It felt as if I wouldn't find my way if I didn't, it was the only way to get out.

We sat so close, I could breathe the scent of him. It's so fucking hard to care about anything other than that. I can't speak, I can't think, I can't school my face to hide any of this. Not sure I even want to.

I looked at him, fighting not to lean forward, and he sparkled at me. The air between us got thinner, as if to make it easier for us to come together. It would take no effort at all, and I'm not sure he would stop me at this point.

His lips are screaming at me to kiss them. My lips are stinging when they refuse.

 

We were on the sofa, watching a movie. Thompson was on the floor, for once refusing to join us, and she was lying where Sherlock would want to put his feet. God forbid we make a sleeping dog move its arse – Sherlock thought I was insane for suggesting it. I said he could just put his feet up on the sofa. He was overly careful when he sat down, and he held his feet comically in the air, frowning, oh God, have I mentioned I love him?

Anyway, that's how his feet ended up in my lap.

Can't believe he didn't know what would happen. Possibly he didn't know feet can be surprisingly sensitive. I started with just resting my hands on top of them, to check it was okay. He didn't pull them away, and he was angrily deducing the telly so I'm guessing he wasn't uncomfortable.

When I started massaging them, the first thing that happened was his voice changed. Dropped lower, speech slower.

Then he started to lose track of what he was about to say in the middle of a reasoning. I've never seen that happen in the year I've known him and it was unreasonably hot.

And then he stopped talking altogether.

My hands are _aching_ to do something, and it was so good to give in. They wouldn't stop, they wouldn't listen to _enough_ , they moved up to his shins and his calves. I could write poetry about his shins and calves. Maybe that's what I'm doing already, I'm

He stopped watching the telly and started watching me. I glanced at him, his urgent eyes, his flushed cheeks. “All right?” I asked.

“Mmm”, he got out, brokenly. I want to, I want to, I want to make him sound like that

I smiled faintly and turned back to the screen. Kept stroking his feet and legs. I could feel him beside me, felt him close his eyes, felt his lips part, felt him squirm, breathe, felt it so strongly that the right side of my face became hot.

And I kept calm like a fucking war hero.

When the movie was finished, I rested my hand on his knee. He failed to hide his shudder and he looked at me. Undersea-rainbows liquid, dazed.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“John”, he said like it was a filthy word.

We stared at each other. I can physically feel the moment it goes on too long. The fraction of a second it goes on past casual, when I know this is when I must look away if I'm going to pretend it's nothing. But I don't want to pretend, and he doesn't even try. His eyes reflected stars, but not the ones on the sky, rather the ones he must hide somewhere inside him.

He swallowed. And I realised. He's waiting. He thinks I might kiss him.

He didn't move away.

But he looked terrified. I don't want to kiss him when he's terrified.

I gave his shin one last stroke before I rose and went to my room. I haven't heard him move from the spot.


	20. 17th February: Ripped Out of a Notebook, Kept in John's Wallet

Walking in the park. Unhurriedly, quietly. Not a single word.

Fresh air. Melting snow, slush and mud. Pouring water in spontaneous brooks. Hint of sun through thin cloud cover.

White and brown and promises of new green. Blue scarf. Rosy cheeks. Floating undersea-rainbows. Calm shoulders. Shallow breath.

Thompson was vibrant with the spring. We let her loose. She splattered wet snow on our trousers. Sherlock didn't manage to say anything about it. Neither of us had a voice.

Walking slowly. Arms brushing

Arms touching

Arms pressing

By accident.

Warmth. Racing heart. Calm smile on my lips.

Thompson found a branch. She wrestled with it, jumped, snarled, bursting with happiness.

We stopped. We watched. Arms pressing. Hands finding. He had no gloves.

He had no gloves.

Watching the dog, watching the undersea-rainbows, watching the inside of my eyelids. Bright with the hint of sun.

Smell of spring, smell of melting ice, smell of skin, smell of breath.

Nobody moved, not on purpose. So slowly, so slowly, tilting, descending.

Lips brushing

Lips touching

Lips pressing

By accident.


	21. 18th February: Blog Draft

We haven't talked about it yet. The kisses are still careful and stolen.

He doesn't say a word, but he's singing. I've never seen him content and happy enough to sing absent-mindedly under his breath. It's indescribably beautiful.

His voice strokes some unknown chord of my soul. My body vibrates with his deep baritone. I want to press against him and feel it shake my chest. I want to kiss him and make him stop in surprise.

He doesn't initiate the kisses. At least he thinks he doesn't. But he has a way of looking at me shyly, and his chin tilts forward the slightest bit.

 

… Like right now. He stops singing. I meet his eyes over the edge of my laptop. I keep writing, he keeps looking.

The flat is silent. Thompson left yesterday, and we don't talk because we don't have to. We've never communicated as much as we do now, completely silent.

In a second, I am going to break it. I am going to hang the word in the still air between us.

“Do you want a kiss?”

 

 

 

 

_Yes._


	22. 19th February: Texts

John    10:45  
Was that alright?

Sherlock    10:45  
Was what all right? SH

John    10:46  
This morning. I got a bit carried away. Just  
checking you're okay.

Sherlock    10:46  
Why would I not be okay? As far as I can  
recall, there were two of us there. SH

John    10:46  
You did seem okay. ;)

John    10:48  
You want that sort of thing, then?

Sherlock    10:48  
What “sort of thing”? SH

John    10:49  
You want me to keep kissing you?

Sherlock    10:50  
I suppose that would be all right. SH

John    10:50  
Oh, you suppose. So it doesn't really matter  
one way or the other, then, does it ;)

Sherlock    10:51  
Stop with the smiley faces. They are  
annoying. SH

John    10:52  
Mm. As annoying as it would be if I got home  
when you were in the middle of reading that  
article on bee colonies, and interrupted with  
a kiss.

Sherlock    10:52  
Precisely. SH

John    10:52  
And if I pulled your lovely lower lip into my  
mouth.

Sherlock    10:53  
Mm. That would be a massive  
inconvenience. SH

John    10:53  
And God forbid you had to endure me sliding  
my fingers into your hair. I noticed you really  
hated that.

Sherlock    10:53  
That… wasn't so bad. SH

John    10:54  
No? What if I scratched your scalp with my  
fingernails? And then moved one hand to  
your neck, stroking so lightly I'm barely  
touching you…

Sherlock    10:55  
I suppose that would be fine.

John    10:55  
Already forgot about the bees, then?

Sherlock    10:55  
No. I'm just letting you carry on; don't mind  
me. SH

John    10:56  
I see. Then it's all the same to you if I start  
kissing your neck.

Sherlock    10:56  
Yes. SH

John    10:56  
Yes?

Sherlock    10:57  
Yes, that would be insufficient to make me  
pay attention to you instead of science. SH

John    10:58  
Of course. And you probably wouldn't even  
notice if I sat down in your lap, straddling  
your legs.

Sherlock    10:58  
Yes. SH

Sherlock    10:58  
No. SH

John    10:59  
Do you know what I would do next?

Sherlock    11:01  
No SH

John    11:03  
I would start unbuttoning your shirt. I've been  
thinking about that all morning, Sherlock.  
How gorgeous you looked in that black shirt.  
How I can't wait to take it off you.

Sherlock    11:03  
You have? SH

John    11:05  
I have. I would do it slowly, though. As slowly  
as my kisses trail down your throat. You  
would throw your head back at that point,  
exposing your neck to me. You would start  
making breathless sounds. God, those  
sounds, Sherlock.

Sherlock    11:05  
John. SH

John    11:07  
I would stroke your stomach along the  
waistband of your trousers. Then I would  
kiss your chest. So very slowly. And just  
when you begin to worry I will never take your  
nipple in my mouth, I will. And it will make  
you sob.

Sherlock    11:07  
John SH

John    11:07  
You want that?

Sherlock    11:07  
Yes SH

John    11:08  
What do you want me to do next?

Sherlock    11:09  
I want you SH

John    11:09  
Do you want me to pull down your zipper?

Sherlock    11:09  
Mm

John    11:10  
Then I will. And I will feel you through your  
underwear. God, I want to know what you feel  
like.

Sherlock    11:10  
Joh

John    11:10  
Would you invite me to your bed?

Sherlock    11:11  
Yes. John

John    11:11  
Do you want me to pin you to it like I did  
when I changed your sheets?

Sherlock    11:11  
I

John    11:12  
Yes?

Sherlock    11:12  
Yes

John    11:12  
What do you want next?

Sherlock    11:12  
I want you to fuck me

John    11:13  
Christ

Sherlock    11:15  
Will you?

John    11:15  
Oh, I will. Not quite yet, though.

Sherlock    11:16  
Why?

John    11:17  
I will take it slowly.

Sherlock    11:17  
JOHN

John    11:18  
You're forgetting the SH in the end.

Sherlock    11:20  
When are you coming home? SH

John    11:20  
When my shift is over. You just have to wait.

Sherlock    11:20  
I don't want to wait, I want you to fuck me SH

John    11:21  
Then you have to wait even longer. I'll save  
that for another day.

Sherlock    11:22  
Do you not want to? SH

John    11:22  
Believe me, Sherlock, there is nothing I want  
more. I just happen to also want to see you  
beg.

Sherlock    11:23  
You know I do not beg. SH

John    11:24  
And you know I can change that. When I  
prepare you, slowly, and curl my fingers in  
you, slowly, and fuck you, so so slowly, you  
will beg.

Sherlock    11:24  
Just come home now, John

John    11:25  
See, it starts already.

Sherlock    11:30  
I'm about to set your navy jumper on fire. SH

John    11:30  
Nice try.

 

John    12:26  
I miss you. I'll see you soon.


	23. 20th February: Blog Draft

I have never seen Sherlock giggle so hard.

We were on our way home from the Yard, and there was a lot of new snow. It was perfect for making snowballs and I just couldn't resist. Wanted to see if I could shatter the intimidating detective-thing Sherlock had going on post-case.

Now I can't decide what's better; pillow fights or snow fights. In pillow fights I have Sherlock flushed and panting beneath me. But in snow fights, I have him flushed and panting _and_ _giggling_ beneath me. The roses on his cheeks from the cold looked like something from a Christmas saga illustration. He worked to maintain the impression of squirming to get away, but he wasn't really trying.

His eyes shone, the laughter kept pouring out of him like a brook, and. I've never seen that. Not that unrestrained happiness and playfulness. God, he was so _happy_.

And the best thing is he let me see it.

He was still smiling when I kissed him.

And then I stuffed more snow into his pants and he _shrieked_.

 

Yeah, I won the fight. I was a wet, cold mess when we finally got home but he was worse off. I didn't follow him into the hot shower despite the way his eyes invited me to, but it was a close thing.

That shower has been going on for quite some time now, by the way. Trying not to think about what he might be doing in there.

Okay, this isn't helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by tweets from [@ContactSH](https://twitter.com/ContactSH) and [@contactJHW](https://twitter.com/contactJHW). Thank you, boys!


	24. 21st February: Note on Sherlock's Pillow

Come upstairs.

John


	25. 22nd February: Undelivered Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left. Thank you for letting me keep you company every day, and for showering me with kind words throughout. Also, thank you for enduring the UST for almost a month, you've been so brave! Please enjoy the resolution.

Sherlock,

 

In a dark room, your voice sounds like music. When you carefully open the door, and your curls make silhouettes against the light from downstairs, and you hesitate in the middle of a step, quietly saying my name. Then your voice is music, and my ordinary name means more than any lyrics could.

In the middle of the night, your dressing gown rustles like an aspen tree. At the centre of all the quiet of the world, when you patter across the floor and lower yourself down on my bedside, first sitting, then carefully lying. Then the only thing audible is your dressing gown, and it stirs the air to carry a scent of silk and Sherlock hair to me.

In my bed, your eyes are hard gemstones of undersea-rainbows. When I kiss you until your breaths break the quiet of the room, and I slide the clothes from your skin, and your hands move aimlessly over my back arms hair, and my hands move purposely slowly over every inch of you. Then your eyes are hard, glistening and wide open, the undersea-rainbows deep, and they follow my every move.

And then they disappear behind your eyelids until only the whites are showing. When I take you in my hand. When I slide my fingers down across your perineum. Your eyes squeeze shut and the furrow between your eyes appears.

I have to put my nose there, pressing against you. I adore that furrow, Sherlock. I adore it.

Squirming. Panting. Pressing. Arching. Letting in, keening, half laughing. You give yourself up for me. You give in to my body, you give in to _your_ body in a way I have never witnessed anyone do. You let go of your mind. I lose mine.

“Please-”

Pinned under me, your mouth hangs slackly open and unbearably soft. When your head tosses on my pillow, and you try to press yourself against me to take me in deeper but at the same time press your cock against my stomach, and your breathing is just a stuttering _J-J-J_ … Then your mouth is so soft I can't help but tasting it, over and over, sucking your lip into my mouth to feel you trying to let out my name.

Soft hands. Long fingers. Clawing nails. Sweaty skin. Muscled arms. Concave stomach. Quivering legs. Wrapped around my back. The smell by your neck. The tangle of your hair. The fervour of your kisses. Sherlock. Sherlock.

In my arms, your body is folded together until it fits against my chest. When our skin is cooling and our limbs are liquid, and our legs are a tangle and we are too tired to kiss. Then you fit against my chest, with your nose pressed into my skin, and I get to feel your breaths slowing.

I won't tell you yet, Sherlock. Not yet. But if you hadn't fallen asleep, you would have heard me thinking.

I love you. I love you.

 

Your John


	26. 23rd February: Blog Draft

Sherlock is standing on the living room floor, staring at the wall of maps and evidence, hands steepled beneath his chin. He's been standing like that for almost an hour, stock still.

I look at him, and I think about what he's like when he's not so still.

He orders everyone around and pisses them all off, and some of them give me pitying looks, clearly imagining what hell I must go through at home with this bastard. I only smile, then. They have no idea how easily he is transformed into an incoherently begging mess. They don't know the soft, almost reverent expression on his face when he touches me.

The only thing that gives him away is the way he looks at me. Sometimes, in the middle of the work, his undersea-rainbows focus on me, glowing with a secret little smile.

“John”, he says, and a whole world is packed into that one syllable. He means

“Follow me.”

“Stay close.”

“Look.”

“Help.”

“Well done.”

“I adore you.”

And I hope he even means

 

Oh, he needs me now. Rambling some deductive chain of thought I can't follow, but it seems it'll end with us dashing off. Better go get my coat.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and that could be the end of this story.
> 
> If not for the fact that, as you know, Sherlock will fall in less than four months. I'm sorry to point it out. I tried to ignore it myself, but when I read fics that just leave me with that knowledge, I feel betrayed. And I'm not one to betray my readers.
> 
> So instead I will thoroughly demolish your hearts with a part 2 and 3 of this series. I'm sorry. I don't make the rules. (Or do I? I'm not even sure any more.)
> 
> You could obviously ignore me and imagine they lived happily ever after! But I promise that even those who stick around for the angst will get a happy ending eventually. Just keep your eyes fixed on me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] The Secret Blog of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948449) by [BakerSt233B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerSt233B/pseuds/BakerSt233B)




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